Florida Knight

Chapter 1

“God save the King!”

“God save the King!” The crowd roared, echoing the words of the Joust Marshal. The sound poured over the green grass of the tournament field, rippled the silk hangings of the King’s pavilion, shot out over the blue waters of the bay sparkling under a late winter sun. The marshal’s gaily caparisoned Clydesdale, long accustomed to the noise, stood four-square, ears barely pricked as the sound washed over them.

“Hip, Hip, Huzzah!”

“Hip, Hip, Huzzah!” the crowd returned. Eager, blood-thirsty. More than
ready for the battle to begin.

The grim, unsmiling man, sitting seven rows up in the bleachers, never opened his mouth. Michael Turco participate in this madness? Never! Eyes narrowed to slits against the brilliance of the sun, his brain narrowed in cynical disbelief, he w
ondered what he was doing here.

More to the point, what was baby brother doing here?

The Joust Marshal took a visible breath, his red silk surcoat heaving above his ham-like thighs, and bellowed introductions to t
he tournament’s four knights
. Dutifully, the crowd cheered as the knights charged onto the field. Though fully armored and gauntleted, their helms were fixed to their saddles, their faces clearly visible. Each carried a silk banner emblazoned with heraldic symbols, which flapped in the wind as they circled the field to the excited shouts of the crowd. Black on yellow, blue on white, white on scarlet—and, lastly, a red dragon rampant on a black background. According to the Joust Marshal—the “infamous Black Knight.”

Baby brother. Mark Turco.

Michael’s scornful features rearranged themselves into a perfect blank. He was not going to recoil at the sight of his brother decked out like a circus performer. A long-sleeved tunic of chainmail peeked out from beneath black armor that had been burnished until it glowed. Not to mention the overkill of black shirt, black tights, black boots so tall the flexible leather tops covered the knight’s steel knee guards.

But the face . . . The face was good, even if the hair—like the other knights—was too long. Mark, the family’s youngest. Rugged, handsome as sin, dark eyes sparkling with a devil-may-care bravado that brought women flocking after him. Not that Michael could see the sparkle from his place in the crowd, but he didn’t have to. He was damned fond of his brother, even if the boy was crazy enough to make his living on a tournament field.

Boy. Hardly that any more. Mark’s midnight black hair had had twenty-five years to grow. Caught tight in a leather thong at the nape of his neck, it betrayed an ancestry even darker than the Celts. Combined with high cheekbones, a hawk-like nose, a permanent tan and eyes almost as dark as his hair, Mark would have looked more natural, Michael thought, with his hair in double braid and feathers, a bow and arrow at his side instead of a broadsword.

But the crowd loved him. The loudest cheers followed the Black Knight in a wave of sound as he circled the field.

“Hip Hip Huzzah!” The crowd in the bleachers on the north side of the field signaled its support of two of the knights, who had just been designated the champions of Chivalry, the Forces of Good.

A great roar of rage, a growl of aggression, rose from the south side of the field, now declared supporters of the Forces of Evil, which, of course, included the Black Knight.
Shit!
Michael’s scowl deepened. The people around him appeared deliriously happy to be designated the Dark Side. Why was it people enjoyed being the bad guy? Some of kind of Robin Hood thing that just wouldn’t go away?

Around him, the crowd alternately cheered, booed, and growled as the knights put aside their banners, accepted lances from their squires, and rode full-tilt at six-inch rings
displayed on horse-high posts.

Rings!
Great bloodthirsty tournament this was! Okay, so spearing a ring from the back of a lumbering giant of a horse while wearing full armor was not the easiest game in the world. But Michael still found it hard to believe he was related to someone who did this sort of thing for a living. It was absurd. And yet . . . when the Black Knight put his lance through a two-inch ring while moving at a gallop, Michael had to admit to a moment of satisfaction.
Way to go, Bro’
.

And now the moment the crowd had been waiting for finally came. The Joust Marshal rode his Clydesdale to the center of the field. Standing in his stirrups, he shouted to the crowd. Would the supporters of Good and Evil like their champions to settle their differences with armed combat?

“Yea!” thundered both sides of the field, the Forces of Good and Evil in firm accord on the lust for blood. For a moment, a fraction of a moment, Michael’s jaw wavered. Catching himself in the nick of time, he clamped his mouth into a thin line. Damn! He’d nearly joined the call to arms. His features—more rugged, more sharply etched, less handsome than The Black Knight—twisted in disgust.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could anyone take this stuff seriously?

A gust of breeze off the bay tugged at the colorful silks on the knights’ horses, sending a flitter of yellow and black, blue and white from opposite ends of the tournament field. The knights donned their helms, snapped th
e visors down over their faces.

How the hell could they could see anything at all, let alone each other?
Idiocy! There ought to be law . . .

Squires handed fresh lances into gauntlets that extended as far as each knight’s elbow. The knights tucked their lances under their right arms, pointed them straight a
head, horizontal to the ground.

The Marshal of the Joust lifted his arm, brought it down in a sweeping signal to start. Hooves pounded the grassy turf as the two knights charged each other. A collective intake of breath as the crowd reacted to the powerful thud of lance on armor. The Blue and White Knight held up the remains of his wooden lance, neatly shattered near the middle. So who won? Michael wondered. The man with the broken stick had obviously hit his mark, even though his shattered lance made him look like the defeated.

A squire ran onto the field, replacing the broken lance. Once again, the men squared off. Horses charged. This time, Yellow and Black took the hit, toppling off the side of his high-backed saddle. The solid whack of armor-encased flesh hitting the ground was clear to all. Michael didn’t even try to repress a wince. No matter what the guy was paid, it wasn’t enough. Yellow and Black, however, managed to stagger to his feet, draw his sword. Long and broad, it glinted in the noontime sun as he continued to challenge the Force of Good.

But of course Good could not triumph over Evil in a manner contrary to the Code of Chivalry. The Blue and White Knight dismounted slowly, resisting the momentum of his heavy armor which could send him tumbling onto the ground with as much punishing force as his opponent. The crowd roared its approval as the Good Knight faced his enemy with both feet on a now-level playing field.

Against his better judgment, Michael couldn’t take his eyes off the two knights as they clashed, clanged, thudded, and grunted their way through their well-choreographed match. When the Yellow and Black Knight went belly up on the trampled field, the crowd on the side of Good thundered, “Hip Hip Huz
zah!” The voices of Evil booed.

The Good Knight gave the Bad Guy a hand up. The voices of Evil cheered.

Okay, baby brother, it’s your turn. Go get ‘em!
Michael winced, stung by the irony. What in God’s name was he thinking, rooting for the Forces of Evil? Just went to show that family loyalty could screw up a man’s common sense.

The Forces of Evil, exhorted by the Joust Marshal, sent a menacing, challenging growl soaring across the field toward the Forces of Good. The Scarlet and White Knight took position at one end of the field, the Black Knight at the other. No holds barred on this one, Michael thought. Their horses, Percherons both, wore armor. This was to be Heavy Combat, the devil take the hindmost.

On the first pass, the thud of wood against armor echoed across the tournament field. Both knights rocked back against their saddle supports. Both held up shattered lances. The squires ran forward.

Each knight secured his new lance, sat straight and ready, waiting for the signal from the marshal. Once again, the horses charged forward. The crowd screamed, gasped, as lance clanged against armor, a direct hit on the visor of the Black Knight’s helm. In front of Michael’s disbelieving eyes, Mark toppled from his saddle, hitting the ground in a crumpled heap of armor, chain mail, broadsword, and leather.

Michael Turco hadn’t survived ten years on the job by hesitating. There was no way that head shot was part of the show. No way Mark was going to get to his feet. Heedless of purses, packages, fingers and toes, he clambered down from the seventh row of the bleachers and was on the field before the other three knights and the Joust Marshal could dismount. Shoving aside the squire who was attempting to remove The Black Knight’s helm, he knelt at his brother’s side.

“Mark, Mark!”

No reply, no movement. Michael fought his way under his brother’s shoulder armor, searching for a heart beat. Nothing but a blasted barrier of chain mail. He struggled with a gauntlet, repressing a growl as the squire, looking as scared as Michael felt, reached out to help. Obviously, the kid knew a lot more about gauntlets and armor than he did. Michael allowed the boy to work the heavy glove off Mark’s right hand.

There was a pulse. For one brief moment Michael allowed his eyes to close. One tiny blink and he was a cop again. Mean and tough, and on the job. “Do you know how to get that damn thing off?” he demanded, nodding at Mark’s helm.

“I tried,” the squire burbled. “The visor’s stuck; so’s the whole helm.”

Michael had visions of steel jammed back against his brother’s face, into his nose, into an eye . . . He looked up into the shocked face of the Joust Marshal. “Give me your sword,” he barked.

“Who’re you?” the Marshal demanded.

If they thought he was going to flash his badge, they were nuts. “His brother. Lieutenant, FHP. Now gimme the damn sword!”

A sharp look, a nod. The marshal handed over his sword.

Using the tip of the sword as a lever, Michael pried at the face plate, bending it back, away from his brother’s face. The young squire fixed his fingers under the neck edge of the helm, ready to slip it off at Michael’s command. Michael gritted his teeth as he fought for the control necessary to bend steel and not let the blade slip into the flesh beneath. Someone would pay for this, he vowed. For this utterly senseless, unnecessary stupidity.

“Try it,” he growled to the squire.

The young man tugged, shook his head. Michael could feel the crowd around them now. A tight suffocating ring. “Get them back!” he shouted to the Joust Marshal. Get them the hell out of here. Did anyone call 911?” Oh, hell, he should have thought of it sooner. He was a professional, for God’s sake. He was not supposed to be in a situation like this with his heart pumping like a jackhammer and sweat dripping off his chin.

“Ambulance is on the way,” someone told him.

Michael went back to work on the face plate. This time the helm moved. Slowly, probably painfully. But it didn’t matter to Mark. Blood was everywhere. Smeared across his forehead, obliterating the black of his eyelashes, spilling over high cheekbones now pale beneath his deep tan. There was no sign of movement, no sound. Except for the faint pulse in his wrist, the Black Knight was lifeless.

“It’s metal, the damned thing’s metal,” someone muttered in Michael’s ear. “I didn’t know . . . didn’t feel it . . . I swear I never meant . . .”

Michael shut out the sound. Later he would remember. Every word, every nuance. But not now, not this moment.

Mark still hadn’t stirred. Not a moan, groan, or flutter of his dark lashes. Michael found himself searching his memory for some sort of prayer, long forgotten. Too long. He settled for incoherent fragments, mostly
Please, Why?
and an anguished
Take me instead!

The Forces of Good and Evil broke ranks as a golf cart moved silently onto the field. A narrow stretcher was fitted along one side. The First Aid crew looked as if they couldn’t decide if they were eager to deal with a problem more serious than too much sun, or terrified of the sudden responsibility. Michael was not impressed. He could only hope the person who said an ambulance was on the way knew what he was talking about.

“No way he’s going anywhere on that thing,” Michael declared. “He needs a neck brace.”

“We’ll just check his vitals,” the golf cart’s driver assured him. Then spotted the enormity of his problem as Michael’s armor gleamed black and shiny under the hot
Florida
sun.

“Oh, shit,” the man breathed.